


Tomorrow Night

by karuvapatta



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn’t let himself wonder what Arthur is like in bed – at least, not often. Canon era future!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while ago and is in no way compatible with Series 4.

Merlin doesn’t let himself wonder what Arthur is like in bed – at least, not often. When he does – which he doesn’t, except he sometimes does – he always thinks Arthur would be, well. Bossy and kind of prattish, but noble and chivalrous in that special way he has, the way that makes everybody fall for him a little even though he is a really, really terrible person.

But. Gentle and caring and maybe thoughtful, Merlin imagines – and bites his lip, stifles a groan and arches off the bed, going, going, _gone_ , before slumping down into the messed up sheets, breathing shallow and forced – and hates himself, just a little.

Reality is different.

Arthur isn’t particularly caring when he slams Merlin into a wall. There’s nothing gentle about the way he wrestles Merlin out of his shirt, all new and bearing the Pendragon crest, because Arthur is stubborn like that. He is not thoughtful when he bites at Merlin’s neck, makes him moan nonetheless because Merlin is an idiot, and pushes him toward the bed, frantic with desire.

Merlin looks up at Arthur’s face – he is being held down, just like that, Arthur’s weight pressing him into the soft mattress, and his head spins from the sheer improbability of the situation. He thinks it’s another fantasy, but no – in his fantasies Arthur is, well. Content, at least. Now he is angry and hurt, and tries his best to conceal it, but Merlin sees through it, sees through it all. And he knows, deep down, that he should stop the madness before it gets out of hand.

Except he’s long gone now, and he welcomes it all – the guilt and the madness – because this is _Arthur_ and he is kissing Merlin again, not-caring, not-gentle and not-thoughtful, but perfect all the same.

Things are getting interesting by this point. Merlin’s free to run his hands all over Arthur’s bare chest – just like he always wanted to, but a little more forcefully, because this is clearly what Arthur wants. And Merlin wants to give it to him. It runs deeper than destiny, he sometimes thinks: this inner need to serve Arthur. It is one of his weaker points.

He runs his hands down, feeling the taut lines of Arthur’s abdominal muscles sliding under his palms, his smooth skin and faint outlines of scars. The heels of his hands brush over fabric, and – clothes. They need to get undressed. But when he wants to undo the belt, with hands or magic, he doesn’t care, Arthur stops him.

‘Wait,’ he says.

Merlin’s hands drop down on their own accord. He’s feeling rather stupid, now that they’re no longer making out. They probably look silly too, half-naked, Merlin lying down in the mess of furs and duvets, wearing a confused expression on his face, and Arthur propping himself on his hands, a slight frown on his forehead that states very clearly that he finally knows what’s going on around him, and quite possibly thinks that this is all Merlin’s fault.

‘We shouldn’t,’ Arthur says eventually, thoughtful. Chivalrous.

Merlin wants to cry.

‘Oh, god,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’

Arthur stares down at him as if Merlin were simple – and there’s no way, absolutely no possibility, that Merlin could find it endearing. But he does.

‘Merlin,’ he drawls, long-suffering. The effect is somewhat ruined since he’s still flushed and breathless and – from what Merlin can see – still hard. ‘You’re my servant.’

‘No, sire, I’m your Court Sorcerer,’ Merlin reminds him. ‘You ass.’

‘You still serve me,’ Arthur points out.

‘You’re the _king_. We allserve you,’ Merlin says irritably.

‘True.’

There’s a moment of silence, while Merlin sighs and huffs in frustration.

‘Are we doing this?’ he asks sweetly. ‘Because if not, I would quite like to go back to my chambers, sire. I have something _private_ to attend to.’

‘Merlin,’ Arthur growls. ‘I’m married.’

‘Yes. I know.’

The words escape him before he can stop them –as they usually do – and he can’t even tell what he sounds like at this moment. Probably angry.

Telepathy is quite simple – small children can do it. Merlin himself could without even realizing it, although that sentence applies to most of his magical abilities. Still, projecting your thoughts for somebody else to pick up is easy, as is picking them up. Reading the mind of someone who doesn’t want to share anything is also straightforward, disturbingly so.

But Merlin doesn’t need magic to know what Arthur is thinking most of the time, and at this moment even less so.

There are images, scrolling by. Image of Gwen in Lancelot’s arms; image of Arthur walking in on them, his face transformed by shock, betrayal and rage. Image of Gwen, small and alone on the floor of her cell, Lancelot shackled in another. Image of a pyre.

And then there are images that Arthur can’t see. Guards suddenly falling asleep, as if by magic. Locks turning and doors opening. Three horses, black, white and brown, racing into the night, chased by the sound of warning bells. A lone figure coming back, slipping into the shadows.

Merlin wonders if Arthur ever noticed his absence but doesn’t want to ask.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says, voice coming out strange and forced. ‘I appreciate your efforts, but this is—I can’t take advantage of you like that.’

Merlin forgets everything for a moment, gazing upwards in sheer incredulity.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me,’ says Arthur.

‘Yes, but—you think you’re taking advantage? Of me?’ Merlin laughs.

‘I don’t see what amuses you so much,’ Arthur says, irritated.

‘I thought it was the other way around,’ Merlin says. Seeing Arthur’s blank expression, he clarifies, ‘Me, taking advantage of you. When you’re emotionally vulnerable.’

Understanding dawns on Arthur’s face – along with irritation and sort of disbelieving rage.

‘What? I am _not_ vulnerable – I’m your king, you useless clotpole. You’d do well to remember that.’

He scrambles off of Merlin, and with his comforting weight and warmth gone, Merlin feels terribly empty.

Arthur swings his legs over the bed’s edge and leans against the bedpost. His posture is impressively regal for someone half-naked with messed up hair and a hickey forming underneath the jaw.

‘Why would you even want to take advantage of me?’ he asks curiously, while Merlin is sorting himself up into a half-sitting position against the other bedpost.

‘Do you own a mirror?’ Merlin asks, resigned.

Arthur snorts.

‘You think I’m handsome?’

‘Objectively speaking.’

‘I thought you hated me. You’re always complaining about me.’

‘Well, the package is nice,’ says Merlin lightly. ‘It’s the content I find objectionable.’

Arthur throws a pillow at him. Merlin catches it effortlessly. He has years of practice.

‘In any case,’ he says, enchanting various pillows into attacking Arthur and watching the show with smug amusement, ‘if that pleases you, your highness, we can put this little incident behind us.’

Arthur is hopefully too busy to notice the disappointment in Merlin’s voice.

‘Stop that,’ Arthur grunts, now wrestling with a duvet.

‘Nuh-uh.’

Merlin should have probably seen what is coming – or maybe he was hoping for it. He laughs when Arthur hauls him over and throws down onto the mattress, kneeling on either sides of Merlin’s hips and preparing to smother him with a pillow.

‘You’ve never been very good at this, have you,’ he states rather than asks, seemingly unaware that Merlin’s hard again.

‘I’m pretty sure I could-,’ Merlin starts, preparing to do something impressive and magical to throw Arthur off balance should he try to attack. But Arthur leans forward and kisses him instead.

It was good before. It’s even better now, with most of Arthur’s anger gone. Merlin is sure there is still a sense of betrayal and anxiety, but he also knows that now, finally, it’s him that Arthur’s thinking about.

There’s still an edge to Arthur’s kisses and caress. His grip on Merlin’s wrists is a little too forceful, his mouth a little too demanding. Merlin is happy to comply though, melting against the kisses like the giant girl Arthur insists he is. Any other time he would try and challenge him, for the sake of pride or, failing that, principality, but right now what Arthur needs is to feel in control.

‘Merlin,’ Arthur breathes into his ear, and it’s almost too much – his voice, broken and vulnerable, and Merlin knows with rock-hard certainty that no-one else is allowed to see the King like that. Arthur’s lips, dragging wet and hot over Merlin’s cheekbone, his hands pressing into Merlin’s sides, urgent, needing, his knee nudging Merlin’s legs apart, and Merlin loses it.

‘I love you,’ he blurts out.

In the silence that follows he can hear everything – guards in the corridor, people milling in the courtyard, the hammering of his own heart.

Arthur’s eyes are wide-open as he stares at Merlin, unmoving and unblinking.

‘I didn’t say what I think I said, did I,’ says Merlin, terrified.

‘I think you did,’ Arthur answers in amazement.

‘Oh.’

Arthur still doesn’t shift from where he is, lying half-sprawled on top of Merlin. He doesn’t say anything, watching Merlin curiously.

‘Can we pretend this never happened?’ Merlin asks desperately and gives Arthur a (hopefully) distracting kiss, but his heart isn’t into it, and neither is Arthur’s.

When they break apart Arthur seems lost in thoughts, and not very pleasant ones at that, judging by the light frown on his face. Merlin can’t help but groan and disentangle himself from assorted limbs and sheets, beet-root red at this point.

‘Merlin,’ says Arthur.

‘Sire.’

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Going to throw myself of the highest tower, sire,’ says Merlin flatly.

Arthur sighs, deep and long-suffering. Merlin hates him.

‘Come back here,’ Arthur says.

Merlin does.

***

When somebody enters Merlin’s chambers as if he owned them, not bothering to knock because he never does, Merlin doesn’t even turn around.

‘Sire,’ he says, eyes still fixed on the book he’s reading to hint, ever-so-delicately, that he’s rather busy trying to prevent the latest magical threat from destroying the kingdom, and can the king kindly bugger off so he can have some peace?

‘Merlin,’ says Arthur. He’s been saying that a lot lately, when he doesn’t now what else to say.

‘Yes?’ Merlin calmly turns the page.

‘I don’t love you,’ says Arthur suddenly. He sounds a tiny bit hesitant.

‘Yes, sire, I’ve noticed,’ Merlin tells him irritably, trying to focus on the words before him. It doesn’t help that he’s not very good at the language.

‘But I’ve been thinking,’ Arthur walks over and falls down into the chair that had already been there when he introduced Merlin to his new chambers. The position of the Court Sorcerer, Merlin soon learned, meant that he was free to practice whatever magic he wished, so long as the king approved of it, and that his opinion occasionally mattered, but when it came to clothes and furniture, he was expected to take whatever was presented to him and enjoy it. The chair, for instance, was almost an exact replica of the throne-like monstrosity that stood in Arthur’s study. Merlin was flabbergasted that Arthur would even allow him to sit in it, but Arthur soon made it perfectly clear who the chair was for.

‘Hmm?’ Merlin floats a dictionary from across the room not taking his eyes off the page.

‘Well. You aren’t entirely bad-looking,’ says Arthur. ‘And you’re reasonably trustworthy.’

‘Thank you, sire,’ Merlin refrains from rolling his eyes, but hopes that Arthur can see that it takes an effort.

‘And the sex was rather enjoyable,’ Arthur continues. ‘And I wouldn’t object if it became regular.’

That, finally, captures Merlin’s attention so that he turns to stare at Arthur, while his brain tries to process what his ears have heard.

‘Are you propositioning me?’ he asks for clarification.

‘Seems so.’

‘Wow,’ Merlin breathes. ‘That was the single most unromantic proposition I’ve heard in my life.’

‘Heard many then, have you?’ Arthur sneers.

‘I read books,’ Merlin says defensively.

‘That explains a lot,’ Arthur grins. ‘In any case, what do you say?’

‘I-,’ he begins, and then stops to wonder. To what, exactly, is he agreeing? Sleeping with Arthur on a regular basis? Becoming his mistress – or favourite, in that case? ‘I don’t know,’ he finishes lamely. ‘Are you going to make me your consort?’

‘Have you completely lost your mind? I’d be the laughing stock of the entire Albion.’

‘Arthur’ Merlin says. ‘I appreciate the idea, I really do, but whatever way you look at it, it doesn’t seem very clever. What if somebody found out? Or else, what if it doesn’t work out and we start fighting, and then we can’t work together anymore, and we’re supposed to…’

‘Merlin,’ Arthur narrows his eyes dangerously, and Merlin shuts up. ‘Is that your answer?’

‘No, actually my answer is,’ Merlin mentally goes through the long list of things that could go wrong, and knows that this is a really terrible idea. And then he looks at Arthur and all the careful reasoning goes to hell. ‘Yes. Sure. Why not.’

‘Excellent,’ Arthur actually rubs his hands together and springs to his feet. ‘Now, we have a council meeting in ten minutes, Merlin, and I hope your report is ready.’

Merlin looks desperately at the mess of papers on his desk, while Arthur gives him a comforting pat on the back.

‘Wear something respectable,’ Arthur says, and leaves.

Merlin has absolutely no idea what he is getting himself into, but that’s alright. He loves Arthur, after all.


End file.
